


a smile made for war

by andrewminyards



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Mage Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Temporary Character Death, Timeline What Timeline, major bastard death, someone said on the chat, spoiler alert but stregobor is a bastard who dies good riddance, stregobors death is permanent though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: You are destruction,Jaskier’s mentor tells him. Death and destruction thrum in Jaskier’s core of chaos, his magic bringing nothing but annihilation, and Jaskier hates it.But music is not destruction. Music is creation, and it sings in Jaskier’s veins. There is nothing quite like the rush of joy and energy whenever music flows through him, and he forgets about the destruction that his chaos is capable of as music fills his soul.After decades of being a sorcerer, Jaskier finds himself in music, and for the first time, his magic bringslife.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 129
Kudos: 1560
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #002





	a smile made for war

**Author's Note:**

> stregobor is a bastard and deserves death

When Julian is four, he screams so loudly that everything in the room shatters.

When servants rush into the room, followed by the Viscount and Viscountess of Lettenhove, they find a sobbing boy curled up in the middle of the room. Everything is broken, shattered, destroyed, but shards and pieces form a perfect circle around the crying child, who is untouched and unharmed.

From that day, his parents grow wary of him. They keep him at arm’s length, doing everything they can to discipline him, and Julian grows up in a loveless household, weathering cold words and harsh lashes from his parents. He is broken and beaten, his parents desperate to carve him into the perfect noble child, desperate to wipe that one horrific night from their minds.

When Julian is fifteen, a mage comes to collect a debt. Years prior to his birth, the Viscount had begged the mage to save his wife’s life. The mage brought her back from the brink of death, and told them that he would collect payment when the time came.

“Take anything you want,” Julian’s father says, gesturing grandly around his extravagant house. The fist that trembles behind his back is the only thing that reveals his fear, and Julian watches his usually unflappable father looking on anxiously as the mage wanders around the household, inspecting everything with a bored, uninterested expression. 

Julian stands behind his father, back straight, head held high, the perfect picture of a noble son. His back throbs in pain with the lashes he’d endured yesterday for failing to master the technique that his swordmaster had taught him, and his arms ache at the hours of chores that his father had subjected him to. His face is heavy with his mother’s powder, covering up the scars and bruises that his father had inflicted on him over the years.

Julian ignores it all, used to weathering the pain that fills every day of his life, and stands straight and tall. The perfect noble son. 

(A disappointment.)

The mage returns to stand in front of Julian’s father, crossing his arms as he drawls, “There is nothing of value in your household, Viscount. There is nothing here you can give me, unless you give me all your wealth. I saved your beloved, after all.”

Julian’s father goes pale at the thought of losing his wealth, eyes darting around as he implores, “Please, there must be something else I can give you.”

The mage glares. “There is nothing else you can give… _oh,_ ” he murmurs as he fixes his eyes on Julian. Julian freezes under the cold scrutiny of the mage’s gaze, fear welling up in his throat.

“Your power…” The mage stalks towards Julian, who takes a shaky step back, composure crumpling. The mage stops his advances, and turns back to Julian’s father, eyes alight. “I will take your son.”

“ _No,_ ” Julian begs, voice raspy from hours of screaming, but no one hears him, his father and the mage staring at each other. After a few tense moments of silence, his father gives a curt nod.

“Take him,” he orders, waving a dismissive hand. Julian’s father looks at him with steely eyes, not an ounce of regret as he continues, “He’s worthless to us anyway. He’s nothing more than an abomination, a shame to the family.”

“ _Father_ -” Julian rasps, but the mage grabs him by his hand and sends his father a deadly smile. “Father, please -”

“Goodbye, Julian,” his father says with finality, and Julian’s scream is swallowed as the mage pulls him through time and space, and his head spins, he can’t feel his body -

* * *

He is in Ban Ard, they tell him. He has potential to become a mage, and here, in Ban Ard, they will train him to be one.

Magic, Julian scoffs, looking around the cold, bare room he’s in. As if he has _magic_.

Then he starts training.

Julian is put into a group with ten other boys, all with the same potential to do magic. Their teacher introduces himself as Waldemar, and he starts them off by sending them to start doing reading on magic.

Growing up, Julian had been forced to read heavy tomes on history and politics and etiquette, horrendously dull books befitting the son of a Viscount. The books on magic are no less heavy, but far more fascinating, and Julian finds himself spending hours and hours poring over the tomes, reading late into the night and finding more and more books to read.

Magic becomes infinitely interesting to him, and Julian can’t wait until they start actually doing magic.

Finally, one day, Waldemar rounds them into a greenhouse, and when he informs them that they will be starting to do practical magic, Julian almost jumps with joy. He watches with unwavering eyes as Waldemar holds a bright yellow buttercup in one hand, and a wilted daisy in another.

“There is a give and a take,” Waldemar says softly, and Julian sucks in a sharp breath as the yellow leaches from the petals of the buttercup. The small flower shrivels up, life draining from it and seemingly pouring into the wilted daisy, which begins to perk up, slowly unfurling as green blooms into its stem and a pure white washes over the petals, framing a sunny centre.

Now _that_ is magic.

Eager to prove himself, Julian picks up a daisy in one hand, and a buttercup in another, and he focuses, trying to reach for the core of chaos which the books had talked about, trying to channel the life from the buttercup into the daisy.

Nothing happens.

Julian focuses harder, sweat beading on his forehead. He should be able to do it. He _has_ to be able to do it. All his life, he’s been a disappointment, but now he has _magic_ , and he will _not_ be a disappointment any longer.

_He’s worthless to us anyway._

The daisy stays wilted, and the petals of the buttercup are too bright.

Julian keeps trying, keeps trying even after the last student trickles out of the room, Waldemar giving him a pitying look as he closes the door behind him, and a wave of anger surges in Julian. He will _not_ be a disappointment. He will prove everyone wrong.

_An abomination._

The next morning, Waldemar finds Julian slumped in the greenhouse, dark circles under his eyes, a partly bloomed daisy in one hand, and a completely wilted buttercup in the other.

Julian vows to do better. Each time Waldemar brings them out to train them in their magic, Julian dedicates himself wholly to improving his magic, but somehow he _can’t_. He’s good at mixing potions, but he barely manages to infuse magic into them. Whatever Waldemar throws at him, Julian only manages to succeed by the skin of his teeth - he can heal a small cut where others can heal stab wounds, he can lift a stone an inch off the ground where others can levitate boulders, and Julian feels useless.

There’s another initiate who excels in everything, and Julian hates him for it. His name is Stregobor, which Julian thinks to be a rather pompous name, and he is Waldemar’s favourite, undoubtedly the top of the class. He walks around the halls with his head held high, an arrogant smirk on his face, and every time, Stregobor watches as Julian struggles, a condescending smile on his face.

“Need some help?” Stregobor asks, sweetness dripping from his voice as he effortlessly grows a tree from nothing, watching as Julian struggles to pull a single bud from the ground.

“Fuck _off_ , Stregobor,” Julian snarls. He clenches his fist, tamping down the urge to punch that smug bastard in his arrogant face.

Stregobor only laughs, and his tree bursts into full bloom. “Sure, Julian. Sure.”

Then Waldemar teaches them offensive magic.

He teaches them to break a rock into two equal pieces with their minds. Stregobor manages it with no effort, but Julian breaks the rock into ten pieces, all equal in size and shape, and Waldemar turns an assessing gaze onto Julian, eyebrows raised in surprise as he picks up one of the ten pieces, turning it over into his hand.

“It seems that I was right to not give up on you after all,” Waldemar says, pocketing the piece of rock as he turns and walks away. “Julian, you are dismissed.”

Julian excels in offensive magic. Stregobor is as good with offensive magic as he is with anything else, but Julian is _brilliant_ , conjuring roaring flames and deadly ice and crackling energy with barely a thought, and he even manages to grow a plant for the first time, covering a tree with poison ivy with a wave of his hand.

Stregobor hates him for it. 

“Not so used to being second best, hmm?” Julian comments as Stregobor only manages a flickering flame. 

Stregobor sneers at him. “At least it’s not the _only_ magic I can do, Julian. Such a shame that you’re abysmal at illusion magic, unlike me. You could do well with covering those,” he wrinkles his nose in disgust as he gestures at Julian’s face, “horrendous scars on your face. Your ugliness hurts my eyes, and I can barely bring myself to look at you.”

Julian snarls, a raging inferno rising within him as he wheels on Stregobor, ready to wipe the sneer off his face, but before he can conjure even a lick of flame, Waldemar’s hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Boys,” Waldemar reprimands, and Julian’s chaos recedes. “Do not antagonise each other. Stregobor, use your words more tactfully. Julian, Stregobor is right. You need to work on the other aspects of magic.”

“Yes, Waldemar,” Julian and Stregobor say in unison, Julian silently foaming at the teeth. 

He _will_ be better. He is not an abomination, and he will _show_ them. Stregobor will regret ever saying such words to him. 

When Waldemar brings them to Tor Lara, Julian is the only one to capture lightning in his bottle on the first try.

Stregobor only manages it on his third try.

He glares at Julian as he leaves, and Julian lets a corner of his mouth flick up in satisfaction. The ultimate test of their control, and Julian had mastered it before Stregobor. 

Before Julian returns to his room, Waldemar clasps his shoulder, and something like pride flickers across his face. “Good job, boy. I knew I saw something in you.”

Julian ascends. He is broken down and remade, and he screams and screams and screams as his scars are burned from his body, the marks of his father’s abuse disappearing as his body is made anew, and he emerges, beautiful and unmarred, chaos at his fingertips.

He could bend the world if he wished. 

They want to send him to Redania. Julian thinks of the tedium of court politics, of entitled nobles bickering with each other in their elegant clothing and glittering jewelry as the poor are trampled beneath their feet. He thinks of court expectations, of lashes on his back and hours upon hours of punishment, and as soon as the Redanian king shows him to his room, Julian portals away.

He refuses to live for eternity in the courts, at the beck and call of the latest monarch. He refuses to be nothing more than a tool for monarchs to wield. 

But if he is to escape the clutches of the Brotherhood, he will need to cover his tracks. The Brotherhood is powerful enough to track him down and drag him, kicking and screaming, back to Redania and keep him in place next to the king, and Julian refuses to be a pawn in the Brotherhood’s hands. 

A tentative idea surfaces in his mind, and Julian almost pushes it away at how absurd it is, but he pauses, reconsidering. 

Over the years in Ban Ard, Julian has learned this: he is good at destruction. He just about manages healing and growing and bringing life, but his skill lies in offensive magic, in draining life to fuel his chaos, in destruction.

Once, watching Julian create accidentally a storm that had raged for days across the Continent, lightning charring the earth black, Waldemar had clapped his hands together delightedly, unconcerned with the floods and deaths and destruction that Julian’s storm had wrought.

“Never before has the Brotherhood seen as strong destructive magic as yours, Julian.” Waldemar had praised, voice filled with wonder. Julian had huddled in a corner, drawing in quick, gasping breaths at how much _death and destruction_ he’d created, shuddering at the thought of how a careless use of his magic had resulted in such widespread devastation.

“Now, don’t panic, Julian,” Waldemar crooned, patting his shoulder. Julian tried to draw on the core of chaos, the core that allowed him to bring such annihilation, tried to use it to bring back the lives he’d unwittingly taken, but he’d never been good at life, only death, and he could only watch helplessly as rain battered against the windows, lightning slicing across the sky, wind howling.

“Don’t you see?” Waldemar asked, eyes alight with something manic as he gestured at the powerful storm raging outside. Ozone crackled through the air, Julian’s chaos mingling with the might of the storm. “Don’t you see it, Julian? You are _destruction_.”

 _You are destruction_.

Julian destroys all traces of himself, leaving no trail for the Brotherhood to follow. He has, after all, the strongest destructive magic the Brotherhood has seen, and Julian feels no remorse as he reaches out with his magic, with his core of chaos gathered over years of draining life after life at Ban Ard, and erases all traces of himself from the minds of anyone he has ever met. 

It is easy, too easy, and it terrifies him, this destructive potential that slumbers at his core. Over the years at Ban Ard, Waldemar had trained them in the give and take of magic, giving them endless sources from which they could draw their chaos. Julian’s fellow initiates had followed it dutifully, giving and taking as they channelled their chaos, but Julian had never been good at anything other than destructive magic. He’d taken and taken and taken, but when it had come to non-destructive magic, he would only manage to muster a drop of power.

And so Julian had accumulated his store of magic, bit by bit, with every failed training exercise over the years, and now, he draws on it easily, removing himself from existence.

Julian Alfred Pankratz, sorcerer of Ban Ard, is no more.

For years, Julian wanders the Continent, wanders into towns and villages, through forests and mountains, exploring the world the way he never had the chance to in Lettenhove and Ban Ard. He tries desperately to be human, ignoring the thrumming chaos that perpetually resides within him, ignoring the knowledge that he could level a town with a thought, and he travels and learns and experiences.

He hates the destruction that lies within him. He wants to create and bring life and heal, but he is unable to do that, unable to redirect his destructive magic to something more gentle and life-giving, so he seals his magic away, burying all that death and destruction as deep as he can. 

Julian will not take any more lives. 

Years pass, and every now and then, he tries to find out what his fellow mages are up to. Most are thriving in their positions at court, and when Julian hears that Stregobor has started mentoring young mages at Ban Ard, he almost chokes in laughter at the thought of Stregobor as a _teacher_. Gods, he fears for the mages under Stregobor, and Julian shudders as he imagines a world filled with mages taught under Stregobor, a bunch of arrogant, smug bastards raised in the image of their teacher. 

But he also hears more nefarious things about Stregobor, about his growing obsession with the Curse of the Black Sun, and when Julian hears of Stregobor’s pursuit of innocent children, he decides to keep an ear out for Stregobor’s misdeeds.

Stregobor had been a smug dickhead when Julian had known him. Now, it seems, he’s turning into an evil dickhead, and well, Julian has always hated him anyway, so when he hears about Stregobor’s plans, he tries his best to foil them from the shadows.

He doesn’t always succeed. As much as Julian hates to admit it, Stregobor is powerful, his illusion magic unparalleled, and Julian can only do so much without utterly destroying everything in his path. 

And so he lives like this for years and years, bearing witness as kingdoms rise and fall, as societies change and humans live out generation after generation, and he feels wonderfully detached from it all as his body remains youthful and unaging. And it gets - well, there is only so much an immortal can do after decades of travelling the Continent, and he longs for something new.

He’s in Oxenfurt, watching as students talk and laugh, books piled in their arms, when he realises that he never had the chance to grow up.

Julian is old. Perhaps he had grown up too quickly, but looking at the students of Oxenfurt, their youth shining on their faces, eyes looking at the world with hope, Julian thinks that maybe. Maybe he can try.

He leaves Julian behind. He needs a new name, one that connects him with his new life, and he thinks of his first magic lesson in Ban Ard, thinks of _there is a give and a take_ , thinks of a wilted daisy and a sunny buttercup.

Jaskier, he decides to call himself. Jaskier, buttercup, filled with joy and life and nothing like the death and destruction that hums at his core. 

_There is a give and a take._

He had drained the life from that very first buttercup, but had been unable to channel that into the wilted daisy. He is destruction, but perhaps he can be more. Perhaps Jaskier will be able to bring life, where Julian had only brought devastation.

The next day, Oxenfurt Academy gains a new student.

Jaskier falls in love with the lute almost immediately, and throws himself into learning how to master it. He quickly rises to the top of the class, his lute skills improving rapidly and his singing voice sweet and pleasant, and for the first time in his long life, Jaskier truly feels light.

Music is not destruction. Music is creation, and Jaskier loves it, loves creating new songs and melodies that come alive through his lute and his singing, so different from his destructive magic. There is nothing quite like the rush of joy and energy whenever he sings, music flowing through him, and he forgets about what his chaos is capable of as music fills his soul.

Jaskier surrounds himself in things that are bright and lively. He buys the most eye catching clothes, elaborately embroidered, wanting to create an impression that he is colourful and vibrant. He crafts a persona that is energetic and bubbly, making friends left and right and bringing a smile to the faces of everyone he talks to.

Music flowing through his veins, Jaskier graduates from Oxenfurt and sets out onto the road as a travelling bard. The first night he camps on the road as a bard, he takes out his lute by the campfire, closing his eyes as he strums. He lets his music melt into the nature around him, blending with the soft rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind, with the chirping of birds and the crackle of the fire. 

Jaskier thinks that he feels a hum of chaos in the air, but he ignores it and lets the tune trail off, hanging suspended in the air, and opens his eyes.

He blinks in disbelief at the sight before him. The clearing, previously bare, now blooms with flowers and plants of all kinds, bright and beautiful. A hummingbird whizzes around the flowers, and bees buzz through the colourful buds. A fox slinks into the clearing, weaving its way through the stems, and a rabbit bounds through the flowers, disappearing under a rosebush. A daisy sways next to his feet, white petals pure and untouched, a cheerful yellow shining at its centre. 

The air hums with chaos, but not the kind that Jaskier is used to. This is his magic, but it isn’t the destructive chaos that pervades his core. This - this is _creation_ , and Jaskier almost weeps at the sheer amount of life his chaos had brought.

He had thought himself capable only of destruction, but looking at the blooming flowers before him, and looking at his lute, Jaskier thinks that perhaps he can create life, too.

Jaskier travels through the Continent again, but this time, he travels as a bard. He sings in taverns to earn coin, sleeping in inns or camping on the road. He practises his magic, letting his chaos leak out for the first time since he’d destroyed Julian Alfred Pankratz, awed at how the combination of his music and his magic bring sparks of life into the world.

 _You are destruction_ , Waldemar’s voice says and Jaskier thinks, no. He is destruction, but he is also creation and music and laughter, and _no one_ will take that away from him. 

One day, he hears of the Butcher of Blaviken. He hears of Stregobor’s name, and his interest is piqued. The stories that townspeople tell him villainise the Butcher of Blaviken, a witcher named Geralt of Rivia, but once Jaskier hears of Stregobor’s involvement, he thinks of his fellow sorcerer’s smug smile, his greed for power and his twisted beliefs, Jaskier suspects that there is more to the story.

He tracks the witcher to Posada, settling himself in the tavern that the witcher will soon enter. If he wants to talk to Geralt of Rivia, he’ll need to pass as human, so Jaskier seals his chaos tightly within himself, so far within him that even another mage would not sense his magic, and waits.

Jaskier meets Geralt, who is a brooding, grumpy witcher, but when they’re captured by elves, Jaskier is intrigued - Geralt is definitely more than the tales of the Butcher of Blaviken, more than who he seems to be, and Jaskier decides to follow Geralt. Perhaps he can find out the truth about Blaviken and that bastard Stregobor’s motives, but also find out more about this intriguing witcher.

As Jaskier travels with Geralt, he learns many things about him. Geralt is gruff and monosyllabic, responding to Jaskier’s babbling with grunts and pushing away Jaskier’s affectionate gestures, but he’s kind and gentle, willing to take less coin for contracts if he sees that people are struggling to pay. As time goes on, Geralt becomes more responsive to Jaskier’s constant talking, and sometimes, he even leans into Jaskier’s touches.

This is not a man who would slaughter people for fun, and the more time Jaskier spends with Geralt, the more certain he is that there is much, much more to the story of Blaviken.

When Jaskier witnesses how humans treat Geralt, he almost wreaks havoc upon the entire town. Watching Geralt’s resigned face as he weathers insults, shoulders hunching under the objects being hurled at him, a deep rage simmers within Jaskier at the sight of such a kind man being subject to such hateful treatment. 

How _dare_ they _._

It is only because Jaskier doesn’t want to further ruin Geralt’s reputation that he doesn’t retaliate, but every time they step into a town and humans treat Geralt with disgust and revulsion, Jaskier casts petty little curses on them, letting a hint of his destructive magic leak out as he curses them to lose their most precious things, to find bugs in their food, to have people recoil from their touch. 

It is a tad cruel, perhaps, but Jaskier seethes in fury at how utterly idiotic and prejudiced humans are, judging witchers simply because they are witchers, and judging Geralt because of a flimsy rumour from Blaviken. Every time guilt over his curses creeps into his mind, Jaskier looks at Geralt, at his resigned expression and his slumped shoulders, and his fury is renewed, taking over the guilt.

Perhaps his curses will teach the humans a small lesson to treat witchers fairly.

They continue like that over the years, Jaskier keeping his identity secret as he follows Geralt on the Path. As the years pass, Jaskier realises that he’s not following Geralt for information on Stregobor. He thinks of Geralt’s hidden kindness, his gentleness and compassion, and how his heart beats slightly quicker at such thoughts, and Jaskier thinks that this must be love.

He has never loved before. His parents had been hateful and abusive, and he’d hated Ban Ard. He has fucked his way through the Continent, falling into the beds of men and women alike, but Jaskier has never been in love before. 

Looking at Geralt’s crooked smile, illuminated by the flickering light of the campfire, hearing his gruff chuckle as Jaskier recounts how he’d escaped a cuckolded husband, Jaskier longs to kiss that smile, capture that chuckle in his mouth, and something soft and beautiful blooms in his heart. 

Now, he follows Geralt because he loves his witcher, and if he could, Jaskier would never leave his side.

He feels guilty, hiding what he is from Geralt, but Geralt makes him feel _human_ , makes him forget about his potential for utter destruction, and he fears that he will see the softness in Geralt’s eyes disappear behind a wall of coldness if Jaskier tells him the truth. Geralt is not a fan of mages, and Jaskier can’t bear to be pushed away, so he stays silent, pretending to be no more than a human bard, powerless and mortal.

If Geralt looks at him and sees the annihilation pulsing in Jaskier’s core, Jaskier doesn’t think he can bear the inevitable rejection. 

The only time that Geralt comes close to finding out is in Rinde, when Jaskier is so distracted by the djinn’s curse that he almost forgets to seal his chaos away so that the sorceress won’t sense who he is. Thankfully, she heals him as though he’s human, and Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief when they finally ride away from broken mansion.

Well, there’s the magical bond that has formed between Geralt and Yennefer, the bond that suggests Geralt is a fan of mages after all, but Jaskier tries not to think about that.

One day, a year or so after the djinn, Geralt tells him quietly about Blaviken, about a young princess and a curse, and Jaskier burns in anger towards Stregobor. He thinks of all the people Stregobor has wronged, thinks of Geralt and the young princess and the dead girls littered over the years, and he longs to go after Stregobor _now_ , to portal to his tower in Blaviken and unleash his destructive magic, but Stregobor has become well-respected in the Brotherhood, and Jaskier is wary of incurring their wrath.

So he vows to ruin Stregobor’s reputation instead, not with magic, but with music. He slips hints of Stregobor’s misdeeds into his songs, never outright declaring how evil Stregobor is, but he hints at the truth of the story of Blaviken, at how Stregobor is the villain, not Geralt.

Jaskier thinks that it might have worked, as people lessen their hostility towards Geralt, but he never gets to fully find out. He’s dragged into a dragon hunt, and Geralt yells at him, furious and heartbroken, on a mountaintop.

Perhaps Geralt had never liked his company over all these years, after all.

He walks away, heart heavy and aching, weighing him down with every step. Once he’s far enough, Jaskier portals himself to the other side of the Continent, to a place as remote as possible, and collapses to the ground, digging his hands into the muddy earth as he fights back the tears that threaten to build in his eyes.

How stupid of him to think that Geralt had ever cared for him.

A tear slides down his cheek, and chaos bursts from him in a wave of destruction, the earth shaking as trees are flattened by a roaring wind. Jaskier lets his magic pour from him in a wave of heartbreak and grief, and when he finally lifts his head, the area around him is utterly annihilated.

Taking a shaky breath, Jaskier stands up, brushing the mud from his trousers. He needs to get out of here before the Brotherhood decides to investigate the mysterious magical surge, so he grabs his lute, grief a painful ache within him, and opens another portal to a random town near Novigrad.

Jaskier goes back to his life as a bard before he’d met Geralt, travelling through towns and singing in taverns, but his songs are empty, his voice hollow and joyless as he lilts out the familiar tunes, tunes that he’s been singing for years. None of his audience seems to notice, but where Jaskier used to revel in performing for his audience, absorbing their energy and joy, now, his smiles are forced, his body stiff as he dances through taverns.

His music doesn’t create life anymore. _Toss a Coin_ used to be the song that would generate the most life, flowers curling around him and plants bursting into bloom, but now, he can’t even grow a blade of grass. Something bitter rises in Jaskier’s throat at the realisation that he is once again nothing more than a vessel of destruction, and he almost throws his lute away and crushes it under his boot.

He loves music, will always love music, but he can no longer create, can no longer bring life, and Jaskier hates it. 

It’s painful to sing now, even as people request the White Wolf’s songs with bright, eager eyes, but he always complies, pushing down the pain that threatens to choke him. Geralt may have pushed him away, but Jaskier won’t stop singing his songs, won’t stop spreading word of his goodness, so he continues singing Geralt’s songs in every tavern he enters, trying to change the public’s mind on the White Wolf.

He continues to sing the songs that allude to the truth of Blaviken. Geralt may not be next to him now, and Jaskier may not be able to witness whether his songs truly make humans less amenable to Stregobor, but Jaskier doesn’t mind sullying that bastard’s reputation anyway.

It proves to be a mistake.

A few months after the dragon hunt, Jaskier is ambushed on the road, and a wave of magic slams him against a tree, keeping him there. Jaskier could easily overcome the magic and retaliate with his own, but he has no desire to show his hand so early, so he decides to wait it out.

“So,” a familiar voice drawls, and Jaskier narrows his eyes at the figure that steps through the trees, needlessly dramatic in his entrance. “You are the Butcher’s bard.”

The years have not been kind to Stregobor, Jaskier notes with no small amount of satisfaction. Whilst Jaskier has retained his youthful visage, Stregobor has visibly aged, white running through his hair and beard, face lined with the years he’s lived, and Jaskier feels a burst of vindictive glee at Stregobor’s worn appearance.

Stregobor clearly doesn’t recognise him as Julian, and Jaskier sags slightly in relief that his memory magic still holds up, even against a mage as powerful as Stregobor. Jaskier is nothing more than an annoying bard to him, though Jaskier suspects the reason why Stregobor is ambushing him in the middle of the road, and it has to do with some of his more recent songs.

“That would be me,” Jaskier replies, making a show of struggling against the magic that holds him against the tree. “And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name, sir…?”

Stregobor draws his bushy brows together. “I am Stregobor,” he announces grandly, clearly miffed that Jaskier hadn’t known his name. Gods, the _pride_ of this man. Jaskier wants to _stab_ him.

He plasters a pleasant smile on his face. “Stregobor!” he exclaims delightedly. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

“Quit the bullshit, bard,” Stregobor growls, trying to loom over Jaskier. It doesn’t work very well. “You wrote those songs about me.”

Jaskier blinks innocently. “I write a lot of songs.”

Stregobor twists his hand, and something presses against Jaskier’s throat, tearing a choked noise out of him. “You know very well what I’m talking about, bard,” he snarls, and the pressure against Jaskier’s throat grows. “The songs about Blaviken. People are wary of me now, saying I have committed heinous crimes that are decidedly not true.”

“O-oh r-really?” Jaskier gasps out, fighting for breath. Any more of this and he might have to reveal his magic.

“Really,” Stregobor says, voice low and threatening. Jaskier’s vision starts to blur, and he gathers his chaos, ready to throw Stregobor’s magic off him. “A weak bard like you really should be more careful about spreading such lies, you know. I am a sorcerer of the Brotherhood, and you would do well not to -”

“Get away from him, Stregobor,” snarls a low voice from somewhere behind Jaskier, and there’s the sound of a sword sliding out of its sheath.

The pressure on Jaskier’s throat loosens, and he desperately gulps in several breaths as he blinks the spots from his vision. How is Geralt _here_?

“Butcher,” Stregobor says. He sounds perfectly calm, but Jaskier feels as Stregobor temporarily loses control over his magic, and he almost smiles. _Lightning in a bottle_. Stregobor is _terrified_. “Here to play guard dog to your precious bard?”

“I _said_.” Geralt's voice sounds closer now, and Stregobor takes a small step back. “Get. Away. From. Him.”

A nasty smile crosses Stregobor’s face, and suddenly, the forest around them in filled with dark, writing creatures, ghouls and fleders and fiends creeping out of the shadows around them.

Fuck. Jaskier had forgotten about Stregobor’s illusion magic.

“Good luck with that, Butcher,” Stregobor purrs, and the monsters lunge.

With Stregobor now focused on maintaining his illusions, the force holding Jaskier against the tree disappears, and he slumps to the ground, breaths heaving. Jaskier watches, fingers twitching helplessly as monsters surround Geralt, who weaves his way through them with expert ease, sword flashing as he slices through the illusions one by one.

Stregobor’s illusions are powerful, but they aren’t invincible. They are solid enough to inflict harm, but disappear with a single strike from Geralt’s blade, and Geralt cuts down the illusions as his sword sings through the air, deftly avoiding their claws and talons and teeth.

Jaskier flashes a quick glance at Stregobor, whose face is pinched in concentration as he conjures more and more illusions, each one bigger and stronger than the last. Illusion magic strong enough to cause actual harm takes a lot of power, and the strain is evident as Stregobor grits his teeth, but the illusions keep coming, and coming, and coming. 

As Geralt fights, Jaskier searches desperately for an opening, ready to jump in with his magic, but the destructive power that’s thrumming at his fingertips is too strong, and Jaskier can’t risk destroying Geralt in the process.

It is all Jaskier can do to let out small bursts of tightly controlled magic, directing them at illusions that threaten to overwhelm Geralt, and he longs to unleash his power and release his chaos. Jaskier could easily wipe out this entire forest, but Geralt’s here, and Jaskier knows that if he were to release his control on his chaos, everything would be annihilated, and he _can’t_ lose Geralt.

He will not take another bright, innocent life with his magic. 

So when a barghest clamps its jaws around Geralt’s sword arm, and a bruxa digs her claws into Geralt’s chest, Jaskier is helpless to do anything but scream.

Geralt falls to the ground, body drenched in blood, and all the illusions vanish. The destruction within Jaskier almost overflows, but he forces it down and stumbles over to Geralt, whose breathing becomes more and more shallow.

“Geralt,” Jaskier babbles, hands fluttering as he takes in Geralt’s body, takes in the bite marks on his arm and the claws marks on his chest. “Oh gods, Geralt -”

Never has he hated his lack of healing ability so much as he tries to recall Waldemar’s lessons, tries to channel his chaos into sealing Geralt’s wounds, but his powers sing with ruin, and Jaskier almost cries in frustration as Geralt’s heartbeat slows, and _he can’t do anything about it_.

“Geralt, please,” he whimpers, cupping Geralt’s face in his hands as he tries and fails to heal Geralt’s wounds. Anguish tears through Jaskier as Geralt’s breathing grows sluggish and laboured, and he chokes on a sob, hating his chaos, hating his magic. 

What use are his powers if he cannot breathe life into the one he loves the most? He truly is a disappointment, so worthless that he is unable to generate life-giving magic in a situation where he needs it desperately. 

“Poor bard.” Stregobor’s mocking croon comes from behind Jaskier, and he whips around, glaring at Stregobor even as his hands tremble.

“You,” Jaskier snarls, tears drying as anger pulses through him. It’s getting increasingly harder to hold back his magic as it pushes against his tenuous control, desperate to be unleashed.

“Me,” Stregobor says, pleased. Jaskier vibrates with fury and sorrow, and he wants to _slaughter_ Stregobor, make him die a slow, painful death.

He thinks of Waldemar’s words.

_There is a give and a take._

Jaskier thinks of the withered daisy and the vibrant buttercup. He thinks of the buttercup losing its colour as the daisy regains its vitality. He thinks of the buttercup shrivelling as the daisy unfurls its petals.

A life for a life.

Magic always has a price.

“Alas, your witcher is no match for me,” Stregobor drones on. He’s always loved hearing his own voice. “When will his kind learn not to challenge us mages? He -”

Jaskier snaps.

 _You are destruction_.

Jaskier grabs hold of the life force within Stregobor, and he _pulls_.

Stregobor is not expecting it, not expecting the helpless human bard to be more than what he claims to be, and Jaskier watches with pleasure as Stregobor’s face pales at the feeling of his life being drained away.

“Oh, Stregobor,” Jaskier mocks as Stregobor struggles against his magic, unable to fight back as his life force is sucked out of him, pouring into Jaskier. “You’ve always been too arrogant.”

Stregobor’s power batters against Jaskier’s, but he’s weakened from the illusion magic he did earlier, and Jaskier has always been far better at destructive magic anyway. It’s not easy for Jaskier to bring life into the world, but taking a life is effortless and easy, and Jaskier relishes in the bright life force that floods into him. 

Stregobor’s eyes widen, and Jaskier revels in the shock on his face as he chokes out, “Julian?”

Colour leaches from Stregobor’s face, and the warm hum of life and creation spills into Jaskier. 

Jaskier smiles, sweet and syrupy. “That’s me.”

“You -” Stregobor’s voice is weakening as his body slumps, and Jaskier twists his hand, letting a thread of agonising pain slip into Stregobor as he takes his last breaths. 

“That’s for the girls you’ve killed. That’s for Renfri,” Jaskier snarls, sending another wave of pain, and Stregobor’s body convulses. “And _that_ ,” Jaskier curls his fingers into a fist, and Stregobor screams as his insides shrivel up, “is for Geralt.”

The last of Stregobor’s life drains out of him into Jaskier’s core of chaos, and his face goes pallid and grey, eyes blank and unseeing as his body falls limply to the ground, but Jaskier pays his dead body no heed as he turns frantically to Geralt, who’s clinging on to the last thread of life.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says desperately. His body pulses with magic, with the life force that Stregobor has fed him, and Jaskier places his hands on Geralt’s bloody chest, on top of his heart. “Come on, Geralt, open your eyes.”

For a moment, Geralt is unmoving, the only sound being the weak thump of his heart, and Jaskier starts trembling. 

_Please, please, please -_

Then Geralt’s eyes flutter open weakly, and he gazes at Jaskier with hazy golden eyes. “Jask,” he rasps, voice faint. “I’m sorry, I -”

“Save your apologies for later,” Jaskier says fiercely as he tries and tries and tries to channel the destructive energy of his magic into the vibrant flow of life. There _will_ be a later, and Geralt will apologise, properly, and Jaskier will yell at him, and they’ll travel together again, just as they have for the past two decades, and they’ll be _happy_. 

Geralt coughs, blood bubbling out of his mouth, and Jaskier’s breathing grows panicked as he plucks at Stregobor’s life force that sings within him, trying to channel that life into Geralt. 

“Later -” Geralt is cut off as he chokes slightly on his blood, and Jaskier frantically pushes his chaos into Geralt, hoping for something, _anything_.

“ _Please,_ ” Jaskier begs, but he’s helpless, his magic a coil of destruction within him, incapable of anything but carnage as Geralt’s eyes glaze over and his heartbeat stutters to a halt. 

“ _No!_ ” The cry rips from his throat, and Jaskier curls his body around Geralt’s, fingers lightly cupping his face as he tries to imbue his magic with life and creation, but Geralt remains still and lifeless, blood drying on his face and clothes, eyes glazed. 

Jaskier brushes his fingers over Geralt’s face, frozen in time. His skin is cool. 

_No._

Trees are uprooted around Jaskier as a fierce gale whips through the forest. The sky opens up, torrents of rain pounding into the earth as ozone fills the air, lightning splitting the sky, followed by a thunderous boom, but Jaskier is untouched as he bends over the body of his best friend, his love, tears falling as violently as the rain that’s pouring down around him. 

_You are destruction_. 

No, Jaskier thinks helplessly. No. He’s more than that. He _has_ to be more than that. 

He doesn’t want to lose Geralt. He _can’t_ lose Geralt. 

Jaskier is capable of more than destruction. He can bring life, he _knows_ it. 

As the storm rages around him, Jaskier thinks of the daisy, going from wilted to vibrant, from dead to alive.

He remembers his first day out of Oxenfurt, the flowers that had bloomed from the strumming of his lute, remembers the music that hums within his soul. 

It might be futile. After all, his music hasn’t created any life since the dragon hunt, and he certainly has never been able to create life stronger than plant life, but he has to _try_.

Jaskier closes his eyes, detaching himself from his grief as he hums the opening lines of _Toss a Coin_. He pushes the image of Geralt’s bloody body, too cold and too still, from his mind, pushes away the pain and anguish. 

His voice is quivering, the melody stilted, and Jaskier tries harder, blocking out everything around him, blocking out the scent of blood and the raging of the storm, and thinks only of the music.

_When the White Wolf fought a silver-tongued devil..._

He loses himself in the music, drowning out his surroundings. This is the first song he’d composed for Geralt. This is the song that first allowed humans to slowly accept Geralt. This is the song that marks the start of their companionship. This is the song that Jaskier holds near and dear to his heart.

_Toss a coin to your witcher, O Valley of Plenty…_

He reaches the chorus, and something bright and warm grows in his chest. Jaskier pours everything he has into the song, all the years of love and heartache, the years of watching Geralt’s rare smiles and hearing his occasional laughter, the years of gentle touches and late nights.

_Toss a coin to your witcher, a friend of humanity…_

The warmth grows until it’s unbearable, and Jaskier feels like he’s brimming with energy, overflowing with light, and he opens his eyes.

Geralt’s body, deathly still, lies before him. Jaskier gathers his chaos, gathers the warmth within him, and he channels it into Geralt. He thinks of Geralt’s kindness and goodness, of the two decades of memories that they’ve shared, and he thinks of how _bright_ Geralt’s life is. 

He imagines the slow, steady thump of Geralt’s heart, the warmth radiating from his skin, pictures the brilliance of Geralt’s golden eyes and the softness of his smile, and he _pushes_.

Geralt awakes with a gasp. His heartbeat is strong and steady, his body warm and healed, and Jaskier collapses in joy and relief at the life in Geralt’s eyes. 

The storm dies down around them. 

“Oh gods, Geralt,” Jaskier sobs, reaching out as his body shakes violently, and cradles Geralt’s face in trembling hands. Geralt is here. He’s alive, body warm with life and vitality, eyes bright as they take in Jaskier’s face. 

“You’re _alive_.” It’s a miracle. Jaskier is death, is destruction, but he had brought Geralt back to life, creation flowing through his veins. His eyes roam Geralt’s face, drinking him in desperately as he lets out another choked sob. 

“I’m alive,” Geralt confirms softly, and he sits up, pulling Jaskier into a crushing embrace, and Jaskier cries into the circle of Geralt’s arms. 

Alive, alive, alive. 

The sun peeks through the dark clouds gathering above, a sliver of light creeping across the destroyed land. 

Finally, Jaskier draws back reluctantly from Geralt’s arms, and Geralt’s hand comes up, a warm thumb wiping at the tears that streak Jaskier’s face. 

“What happened?” Geralt asks, his voice a whisper as he takes in the utter carnage around them. His eyes catch on Stregobor’s limp, lifeless body, and his breath hitches. “Jaskier, what happened?”

Jaskier looks around, looks at the havoc wreaked by his magic, looks at Geralt, warm and alive, his chaos thrumming with the brightness of life, and he smiles. 

“Me,” Jaskier says. _Worthless. Abomination_. _You are destruction._ Geralt looks at him with curious eyes, his life force fierce and bright, and a joyful laugh spills out of Jaskier. “I happened.”

“You…” Geralt’s brows furrow, looking from Jaskier to the destroyed land around them and back to Jaskier again. “What?”

Well. No more hiding. 

The joy at seeing Geralt alive flickers out, and Jaskier leans back from Geralt’s touch, mourning the loss of warmth immediately. If he distances himself, perhaps the inevitable rejection will sting less. 

“I’m a mage,” Jaskier confesses, straight to the point. “Stregobor killed you. I killed him, and brought you back to life. As for the, ah, everything,” he gestures vaguely to their surroundings, “I lost a bit of control after you died.”

Geralt blinks at him. He seems confused, but not mad, and something loosens within Jaskier, so he continues. 

“I was trained at Ban Ard, years ago, and left the Brotherhood once I ascended.” Jaskier thinks of the years of aching loneliness, so unlike his years at Geralt’s side. “But I truly am a bard. I never lied to you about that.”

“Why me?” Geralt rumbles. His face is open, not a shred of hostility in his eyes as he regards Jaskier curiously. 

Jaskier gives a faint smile. “At first, I wanted to know what Stregobor did,” he admits with a guilty wince. “I’d been following his misdeeds for years. But then…”

Geralt grunts, promoting him to continue, but Jaskier decides, fuck it, and grabs Geralt’s face, pulling him into a kiss. 

For a moment, Geralt is still, but he quickly melts against Jaskier’s touch, burying a hand into Jaskier’s hair to bring him closer, and Jaskier whimpers slightly. 

He never thought he would get to have this. 

The clouds part, and the warmth of the sun spills onto both of them. 

Reluctantly, Jaskier pulls away, smiling as Geralt chases his touch. There’s a tinge of pink splashed across Geralt’s cheeks, and Jaskier’s heart blooms with love and warmth. 

“Uh,” Geralt squeaks, and Jaskier melts at the soft, vulnerable sound. 

“This - this is why,” Jaskier murmurs, looking away. “I feel - human, around you, like I’m not a monster capable of destroying everything in my path.” He swallows, and steels himself for the sharp blow of rejection. “I understand if you hate me now, for lying to you for so long -”

“Shut up,” Geralt says, and Jaskier almost recoils at the harsh words before he catches the gentle expression of Geralt’s face. “I could never - I wouldn’t hate you.”

A bud of hope unfurls in his chest, and Jaskier smiles, slow and delighted. “Oh?”

Geralt clenches his fist, looking away. “I don’t hate you. But I - I’m sorry,” he grits out. “For shouting at you on the mountain. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jaskier laughs wetly. Maybe, maybe he gets to have this - this one good thing in his life, and for the first time, he lets himself hope. “You were forgiven the moment you _died_ on me, you idiot,” Jaskier chokes out, the image of Geralt’s pale face rising, unbidden, to the front of his mind. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Geralt’s hand brushes Jaskier’s cheek, gentle and tender. “Well, good thing I have my own personal mage to keep me safe, don’t I?”

Gods, Geralt is an idiot, and Jaskier loves him. Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s armour, and when their lips meet, sunlight floods across the destroyed, barren land, blooming with flowers. 

* * *

Jaskier follows Geralt around the Continent, lute in his hands and songs flowing from his lips. 

_You are destruction_. 

A wilted daisy. A give and a take. Jaskier yanking Geralt into a kiss as he sends chaos singing through the air, his magic surging through a pack of drowners. Nilfgaardian soldiers dropping to the ground one by one for no apparent reason, Jaskier watching from the shadows. 

But also. 

Geralt’s eyes, sparkling with fondness at the lilt of Jaskier’s music. Geralt’s tender smile as Jaskier grows a field of flowers and weaves them into Geralt’s hair. Geralt’s lips against his as Jaskier tucks a rose, colourful and vibrant, behind his ear. 

He is not destruction, Jaskier thinks as he snuggles against Geralt, warm and radiant with life. He wraps himself around Geralt, revelling in the fierce brightness of his life force, the heat emanating from Geralt’s body a constant reminder that Jaskier is capable of bringing life and love and joy. 

Destruction coils around his core of chaos, but something bright and gentle pierces through the death and destruction, the music in his soul mingling with his magic. 

_You are destruction._

Jaskier is far, far more than that.

**Author's Note:**

> congratulations for getting to the end of this fic! i apologise if the narrative seems rushed, because it really is. writing 8k in 24 hours is very taxing, apparently. who knew? (i have so much more i want to explore, i might come back to this in the future)
> 
> i also have no idea how magic and chaos works, can you tell?
> 
> (one day i will find a beta before i subject the world to the shitshow that is my writing sorry guys)
> 
> come find me on tumblr [@jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


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